


The Worst of Me

by Wilder



Category: Samurai Deeper Kyo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, M/M, Muramasa is Fubuki's roommate, Permanent Injury, References to Depression, Shihodo is Hishigi's friend, ft. Hishigi as the defrosting ice king, parallels to manga canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-01
Updated: 2015-05-28
Packaged: 2018-03-10 01:18:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3271427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wilder/pseuds/Wilder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fubuki doesn’t expect any more than a drink the first time he sits down at the bar, and Hishigi doesn't have the energy to pay him any attention. Hishigi doesn’t expect any more than a few lines of awkward conversation the second time, when Fubuki asks for his name. It's been a year since Hishigi's life shattered, and he's never wanted to burden anyone else with the wreck that remains. It scares him that someone wants to help him pick up the pieces.</p><p>Modern AU. Currently rated for language and implied prescription drug dependency.</p><p>Major edits to chapters 1&2 made 1/9/17.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

For a moment, the first time Fubuki sees him, all he can process is that the man working the bar looks exhausted. There are dark circles under his gray eyes, and though he makes an effort to be cordial, it’s obvious he’s been here way too long. His black hair is slightly messy, the one white streak hanging almost into his eyes.

“Can I help you?” the bartender asks. Fubuki can hear the fatigue in his voice and honestly considers asking if he's okay.

“Whiskey? Tullamore Dew if you’ve got it. Thanks,” he says instead. The bartender nods, departs, returns with the drink, and moves on to the next patron. Fubuki sees the edge of a tattoo where one sleeve rides up, and he has a wholly inappropriate desire to know what the rest of it looks like.

Fubuki thinks he hangs around longer than he should, and he definitely drinks more than he should. The more he watches the man at the bar, the more he likes him. Slowly, the bar empties, and Fubuki notices that he’s out a hell of a lot later than he’d intended to be.

“Sir?” a low, quiet voice asks. Fubuki snaps out of a daze, sees the guy he’s been watching all night looking at him, and his brain short-circuits for a moment.

“I should go,” he says after a couple of owlish blinks, and he thinks he sees a hint of relief in gray eyes. Guilt hits him when he realizes that the bartender probably could have gone home already if he hadn’t hung around so long. Fubuki digs around in his pocket and leaves an excessive tip before dragging himself out the door.

 

It isn’t like no one else looks. Hishigi knows that people look, and plenty of them don’t stop there. He’s turned down more than a few propositions from people who have had too much to drink and think he looks like fun. They’re wrong, but that doesn’t stop them.

This one, though. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t leer. Hishigi is aware of that gaze on him, but never worried by it. Until the man overstays his welcome and Hishigi’s eyes are burning with exhaustion and the bastard won’t just pay for his drinks and _leave_. It’s a relief when those light brown eyes start drifting and Hishigi can ask if he’s done. The tip is nice, at least.

His entire body aches from standing for so long. Once the stranger is out the door, Hishigi collapses into a chair and stays there until he can force himself to his feet again. Sleeping is going to be tough tonight.

 

Fubuki kicks himself when he remembers that he didn’t even ask for a name. Not that Fubuki is delusional enough to believe that there’s going to _be_ anything there (the bartender barely looked at him and spoke even less), but it would have been nice to know.

His roommate is a morning person (damn him), and Fubuki swears he takes a fiendish delight in waking Fubuki up and lecturing him about the dangers of alcohol.

“Muramasa, leave me _alone_ ,” Fubuki finally groans, rolling over and pulling his comforter over his head. Muramasa is twenty-five, only a year younger than Fubuki is, but sometimes Fubuki is convinced that he lives with a child.

For once, his friend is merciful, and Fubuki manages another hour before he finally has to get up. He wonders what exactly possessed him last night. He never drinks that much, and his head is punishing him now. Then he recalls cool gray eyes and sharp features, the hint of a tattoo and a deep, reserved voice.

Fubuki considers drinking again – _elsewhere_ – because clearly he’s delusional. Not a chance in hell. But maybe he’ll drop by again. Ask for a name this time, maybe see if he can learn a little more.

He groans and takes a huge gulp of Muramasa’s coffee, which he immediately regrets as he discovers an excessively-sweetened abomination. Muramasa stifles a snicker, and Fubuki glares at him. Sometimes he doesn’t know how he stomachs living with this particular friend.

 

Shihodo keeps pestering him to go outside, see the world, _do_ something so he doesn’t get stiff and fuck up his leg worse. Hishigi just wants to sleep for once, but he knows she has a point. It’s been a year since the accident, but the pain in his left side is constant, impossible to ignore, impossible to endure some days. Physical therapy has put him back on his feet, but it’s only managed to dull the knife’s edge as far as the pain goes.

She drags him out of his apartment, and her enthusiasm for almost literally everything would be infectious if he weren’t so tired. Shihodo calls him a stick in the mud, but the way she looks at him, it’s obvious that she’s concerned.

Hishigi finds his mind drifting to the man at the bar last night, the one who couldn’t keep his eyes off of him. He remembers tawny eyes and near-white hair, and Hishigi thinks he might not mind if that one comes back.

“Earth to Hishigi?” Shihodo’s voice cuts through his memory, and Hishigi meets her gaze and cocks an eyebrow. “Something to eat?” she asks.

“Not hungry,” he replies almost automatically, and Shihodo just looks at him.

“You’re _never_ hungry. Come on, Hishigi, you’re turning into a skeleton.”

It isn’t that he’s never hungry, exactly. His painkillers make him sick sometimes, and his appetite is shot. He used to be athletic, but he’s deteriorated in the past year. Shihodo knows that. She’s been trying to keep him from wasting away ever since.

He lets her pull him into a quiet little place, and he manages to keep some miso soup down as she stuffs herself. How she maintains that figure is a mystery to everyone who has ever met her.

“Walk with me a bit?” she asks after they depart.

Hishigi hesitates. He has a shift tonight, and he doesn’t want to push himself too far. But his therapist did tell him to keep moving, not to let himself stiffen up. So he nods, and follows Shihodo for a while, listening to her talk about whatever crosses her mind. Today it’s mostly Kyoichiro and the fact that she really should just cut his dumb ass loose, but what would the stupid fuck do without her? The edge of smile curves one corner of Hishigi’s mouth, and he shakes his head.

“And what about you? Have you been on a single date in the past six months?”

Hishigi looks at Shihodo with a disbelief that’s nearly palpable. Of course he hasn’t. She knows he hasn’t, and she knows why. No one wants to deal with the level of baggage that Hishigi comes with, and he knows it, too. His last boyfriend couldn’t handle it, couldn’t deal with the way Hishigi fell apart. Hishigi hasn’t even really wanted anyone since.

Shihodo tries, every once in a while, to introduce him to a friend. Hishigi never makes a good impression (too distant, too cold), not to mention that he’s never interested. Again, though, his thoughts go to the man at the bar, and he realizes the attraction wasn’t exactly one-sided. Not that there's any point in thinking about it.

He doesn’t mention it to Shihodo. She’d jump on it and then refuse to leave him alone.

His shift starts at four. He slips a couple of Percocet into his pocket before he goes in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so I'm a really bad person. And it seems likely that no one is going to read this, considering the tiny fanbase, but it got in my head and I needed to write it. Not sure when the next chapter will exist.


	2. Chapter 2

Fubuki almost gives in to logic, but he finds himself at that little bar again instead. And it’s the same person behind the counter. He’s still stunning. He's also just as obviously worn out as he was last night.

“Can I… help you?” the voice comes, with a moment's hesitation as his eyes settle on Fubuki halfway through the question. Fubuki wonders if the bartender is surprised to see him back.

He orders and tells himself that he’s not going to drink himself into a stupor tonight. He is going to remain entirely conscious, if slightly braver than usual. He calls himself ridiculous, because he’s never been so nervous about asking for a name. There’s something about this one, something different. Something he should probably leave well enough alone, but since when is Fubuki that smart?

When it slows down, Fubuki waves, and the bartender makes his way over.

“Anything I can do?” he asks.

“Maybe,” Fubuki responds, and he’s shocked that his voice doesn’t waver when he continues. “You have a name?”

One slim, black eyebrow rises a millimeter or two, and those dark gray eyes look just a little less apathetic.

“Does anyone?” he asks. His expression barely changes, but there’s something new in his voice.

“You want me to start? I’m Fubuki, if it helps.” A smile that’s supposed to be charming (but probably looks dumb as shit) plasters itself onto Fubuki’s face.

There’s a moment in which Fubuki doesn’t think he’s going to get a response, that he’s done something stupid and will never be able to show his face in this bar again. But then the tiniest hint of a smile twitches at the corner of the guy’s mouth, and Fubuki thinks maybe he’s not a complete idiot.

“Hishigi.”

It’s a start.

 

For a moment, Hishigi isn’t sure why he even gives his name. This man is a stranger. There’s something about him, though (the way he talks, maybe, or the way he looks at Hishigi like he’s something worth giving a damn about), that makes Hishigi think.

He debates for the rest of the night. Maybe he's like everyone else, just thinks Hishigi looks like fun. But he doesn’t talk like them, doesn’t act like them. So when the stranger ( _Fubuki_ , Hishigi reminds himself) finally starts to stand and turn away, Hishigi throws caution to the wind.

“Hey,” he says, and Fubuki turns back around. Hishigi takes a deep breath (too deep; it makes his ribs hurt). “This is my number. Don’t make me regret handing it out.”

The expression on Fubuki’s face looks a bit like disbelief, but he takes the scrap of paper. Hishigi watches him go before he disappears into the back to take the last of the pills in his pocket. He has to give them a while to kick in before he can force himself to endure the walk home.

 

When Fubuki wakes up the next morning (okay, technically afternoon), he doesn’t remember for a moment. When he does recall the fact that yes, he managed to ask the bartender’s name, and it’s Hishigi, and Fubuki has his number, he thinks he must still be dreaming. He can’t possibly have done that. But he finds the little scrap of paper, and the numbers in a compact, neat script. _Shit_ , even his handwriting is pretty.

Muramasa is out. Probably went to lunch with his sister, the one he keeps trying to set Fubuki up with. Fubuki thanks a couple of gods for his absence.

He lies in bed for a while, staring at his phone, trying to work up the nerve to tap out a text. Is Hishigi going to think he’s desperate, contacting him so soon? Or is he going to be offended if Fubuki waits too long?

Patience has never been Fubuki’s strong suit.

 _Hey. It’s Fubuki_. He taps “send”.

He wonders how long it’ll take to get a response. If he’ll get one at all. If Hishigi already regrets handing out his number, because they don’t know each other and they’ve only met twice while Hishigi was doing his damn job. The buzz of his phone startles Fubuki out of that whiny, neurotic place in his head.

 _Hello_.

Fubuki probably shouldn’t be so glad to see a single word, but that doesn’t stop him.

_Are you working tonight?_

He waits a little longer this time, but not quite long enough to worry him.

 _No_.

Fubuki stares at his next reply for a while, obsessively editing before he can bring himself to actually send it, and ends up with something painfully simple.

_Feel like letting me buy you coffee?_

 

Hishigi isn’t sure how to respond. He doesn’t really feel like getting coffee, but he does feel like getting out of his apartment, which is rare. And he doesn't think he'd mind Fubuki's company.

 _Not really_.

He pauses before sending the second message. 

_I’ll let you buy me tea though._

 

The first text sends Fubuki’s heart diving into his stomach, and the second makes him laugh. He hasn’t figured Hishigi for the type to tease. He considers teasing back, but doesn’t want to push his luck. So they agree on a coffee shop instead.

 

It takes a few minutes for Hishigi to fully process the fact that he just agreed to something that sounds suspiciously like a date. He hasn’t been on one in over a year. And for the first time since the ex walked, Hishigi thinks he actually gives a shit that someone seems to like him.

After pulling a leather jacket over his black t-shirt and dark jeans, Hishigi heads outside. He doesn’t drive anymore; when his left eye lost most of its vision, he stopped feeling comfortable behind the wheel of a car. But the coffee shop is within walking distance of his apartment, and he does not want to ask Shihodo for a ride.

He steps inside and hopes that he hasn’t opened up for nothing.

 

For a few moments, Fubuki thinks that Hishigi has thought better of this plan, and that he’ll be spending an awkward few moments alone in a coffee shop full of young writers and people on dates. Then he notices the tall, slim figure in the corner of a booth, his long legs crossed at the ankles and his black leather jacket pooled around his waist. The tattoo is more visible now; black and silver dragons coil around the lean muscle of his left arm and disappear beneath his sleeve.

“Hey,” Fubuki says.

A small smile curves Hishigi’s lips, and he looks up from the book propped between the table and his right hand.

“I was starting to think I’d have to buy my own tea.”

Fubuki laughs quietly as the book disappears into Hishigi’s bag before he can get a look at exactly what kind of thing this guy reads.

“What do you drink?” he asks, scanning the chalkboard above the counter.

“The spiced oolong is their best,” Hishigi replies. 

When Fubuki returns with a small pot of steeping tea and his own espresso, Hishigi is reading again. Fubuki catches the title this time, and is surprised to see a novel he read last summer.

“Do you paint, or just read?” he asks, gesturing toward the cover.

Hishigi looks up and takes the tea, setting it on the little table before answering.

“It piqued my interest. I hadn’t read a novel about blue before.”

Fubuki doesn’t quite know how to answer that. He feels a little stupid – Hishigi is an intellectual, obviously someone who pursues knowledge for knowledge’s sake – and he wonders if this was a good idea. He doesn’t know if he can keep up.

“Do you paint?” Hishigi asks, breaking Fubuki out of his cycle of self-doubting thought.

Fubuki takes a moment before he answers. Technically, yes, he could say that he paints. His fascination with artwork and its inspiration is the reason he picked up the book in question. But he doesn’t show anyone the things that he paints, and he’s worried that if he says he does, he’ll be put on the spot for an example.

“I dabble. Nothing serious,” he finally says. “I’m not even close to good enough to quit the day job.”

Hishigi laughs quietly at that, and Fubuki’s heart skips. He really is beautiful, this one, and it’s more obvious in daylight. His voice is silk, eyes sharp, his entire image a composition of elegance. And Fubuki almost fucking blushes when those charcoal-gray eyes meet his.

They sit quietly for a few minutes. Hishigi cradles a cup of tea in both hands, periodically sipping at it. Fubuki burns his tongue on his coffee and tries really hard not to sputter as his eyes water with the pain, but he knows that Hishigi must have noticed.

“So,” Fubuki begins again, “what do you do? Besides bartending.”

“Nothing, really,” Hishigi says. “I finished school a few years ago and never found anything I wanted to do. So I’m in the same situation, working what I need to pay the bills.”

Fubuki watches the way Hishigi’s eyes flick away, and he knows he’s not getting the whole story. He won’t push for the whole story, not today at least. If Hishigi feels like giving him another couple of chances, maybe he’ll ask.

Small talk doesn’t seem to be a specialty for either of them, and Fubuki starts wondering again if this was a bad plan. But Hishigi doesn’t seem to mind the silence. On the contrary, he looks more at ease when he’s not expected to speak, and he meets Fubuki’s gaze more often. He looks more accessible, a sharp contrast to his distance before. They people-watch a little bit, and then Hishigi surprises himself by speaking.

“If you want to meet up again, let me know,” he says, the hint of a smile touching his lips. “It’s been interesting talking to you.”

“You’re leaving?” Fubuki asks, a hint of disappointment entering his tone.

“Sorry,” Hishigi says. “I need to meet a friend. Thanks for the tea.”

And with a small wave, he’s gone.

Fubuki can already tell that this one is going to break his heart.

 

Hishigi manages to hold back the gasps of pain until he gets back to his apartment. He wants to kick himself for forgetting his pills at home, because he’s paying for it now. The pain in his leg feels like the bones have shattered all over again, and the pounding in his head is brutal.

He knows that this is a problem beyond just injuries that might never heal right. He’s too dependent on the medication – this is probably the longest he’s gone without it since the wreck. He lost track of time with Fubuki, and maybe that’s a good thing, but right now all Hishigi can think of is how _stupid_ he is.

He steps into the shower, hoping beyond hope that cold water will help _something_ , and nearly collapses at the moment that his left leg takes his full weight. For a few seconds, Hishigi thinks he might pass out, but the black spots fade from his vision and he steadies.

He’s not sure if the shower actually helped or if his painkillers have just kicked in by the time he’s done. Either way, agony has been replaced with discomfort again, and he might be able to sleep tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm an awful human being. I could have given Hishigi a happy AU life but noooo.
> 
> Me: Hey, in an AU you could conceivably make Hishigi happy.  
> Me, to me: Modern!AU Hishigi would definitely be addicted to painkillers.


End file.
